Talking to Myself on My Fortieth Birthday
Think of a horse clicking over brick roads
in a winter measured by sundials.
Don't think about each day's museum
where you've left dust-bound footprints.
Assume sand pinches through hourglasses,
springs stretch hands across taut clock faces.
Don't assume the stars' careful count has kept track
off all the hours and days you've misplaced.
Remember foam turning rocks under waterfalls,
blackbirds straining across the sky's skein net.
Forget last spring's final leaf caught briefly
in your coat collar on its flight from air to mold.
Consider your mind complete in middle night;
be unwoven by morning's partial sentence.
Close your eyes; all the world pours down the throats
of hummingbirds whose first songs you've lost.
Forthcoming in Lumina